Countess. You hear, my Lord!—Has not the simplicity of this Child’s confession, as artless as the one I have this moment made, sufficiently justified my Conduct? And do not circumstances prove, how injurious your Suspicions have been, and how well founded mine? (Count bows to the Countess.)
Antonio. You see, my Lord, what a giddy young thing it is.
Count. And very loving too.
Antonio. Her mother, as every body knows, was just such another.
Enter FIGARO.
Figaro. Come, my pretty Maidens, come. (Turns to the Count) While you keep the Lasses here, my Lord, we can neither begin our Procession nor our Dances.
Count. (Gravely putting on his hat) Why surely, Sir, you don’t intend to dance.
Figaro. Why not, my Lord?
Count. What! With a hurt in your ancle?
Figaro. Oh! Is that all?—It pains me a little, to be sure; but that’s a trifle—Come Girls.